


Changing Colour

by makingitwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble, Happy Ending, M/M, Pre-Slash, Some Fluff, could be read as friendship, hints of more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 13:33:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3412511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makingitwork/pseuds/makingitwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Many people have changed Sherlock Holmes. </p><p>Some more than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changing Colour

People changed Sherlock Holmes.

Oh, he likes to think he’s above all that, but it’s true.

Mycroft.

"And _why_ can’t I be a pirate?" Sherlock, 9 years old and irritated, snaps, pushing the eye-patch up onto his forehead, and looking at his brother. The only person in the world he respects (and even that’s just a thin piece of ice to skate along) Mycroft is the only person smarter than Sherlock, and it’s that value Sherlock holds above all else, so he patiently waits for Mycroft, who’s sitting pretty damn regally in that armchair, sipping tea, for an answer.

"Because that’s not what people _do."_

"And why not? Sir Frances Drake was a pirate."

"Sherlock," Mycroft has that way of saying Sherlock’s name that makes him happy. Makes him want to cuddle up to Mycroft for attention, because while Mycroft is the smartest person Sherlock knows, Mycroft has often said to him, that no one in the world comes close to being as intelligent as Mycroft, as Sherlock. "If you want to be a pirate, I have no doubt that you will become a pirate. No one can stop you when you want something," he places a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder "But it’s not what people _do._ Remember," he pauses for a moment "Last week, when you choice to do your show and tell about fingernail growth after death? And you made that child throw up?"

"Uh-huh." He nods slowly, thoughtfully

"People will be like that. Always. And…" Mycroft suddenly looks strange and different, and Sherlock doesn’t understand why "And it can be very lonely."

Sherlock doesn’t want to be a pirate then. He also reads into social norms, because he doesn’t want everyone’s reaction to him being ‘throwing up’, so he learns how to act. Acting. That’s all it is. Mycroft makes Sherlock learn how to flirt with women, how to know how to dress, how to speak, how to create first impressions and know more than just read people. But rather, read reactions, so he can see if what he’s saying is maybe, just a step too far.

It’s that quality that enables Sherlock Holmes to be grateful of;

Greg Lestrade.

Is it Greg? Might be Gavin. Anyway, Sherlock remembers walking into the police station, demanding authority to the person at the very top, and he planted the newspaper down in front of Lestrade, and pointed to an article advertising suitcases. "A terrorist group is communicating through the advertising section in the newspaper. They’re going to attempt to bomb the new bank down on 31st Street."

Lestrade had stared at him.

Sherlock could read reactions, and there was no disgust, or irritation, but rather amazement.

"How’d you know that?" he asked delightedly "We’ve had people working on that for months, we got that it was a terrorist organisation, but I had no idea it was the bank they were after!"

Lestrade takes all his advice, and he just listens to Sherlock, and Sherlock hasn’t been able to boast about his brilliance for so long, that Lestrade is just perfect for him. And then, when both of them are out back, having a smoke, Lestrade says;

"You should always do this. Consult on cases, I mean. Nothing formal, I mean, but there’s a bit of money in it for you."

"I don’t do it for the money." Sherlock replies, taking a deep inhale, flickers of amber falling to the cold ground "But that sounds like fun. Consulting I mean, I could be…a consulting detective." (It’s almost better than being a pirate)

"You don’t remember me, do you?"

Sherlock blinks, turning to look at Lestrade, before he shakes his head, and the older man smiles softly

"I took you to hospital when I found you in that crack den a few months ago."

Oh.

Lestrade motions to the cigarettes "These’ll be the last ones we have, Sherlock." He orders "Me and you, new beginning."

No one’s ever told Sherlock what to do, but he and Lestrade gave up smoking. Sherlock later deleted that Lestrade had given up too, and when Lestrade reminds him by showing him the patch, Sherlock is humbled into silence.

There’s Molly Hooper.

God, Sherlock hated her in the beginning.

A useful little thing, though.

He’d used his knowledge of flirtation and body language to realise rather quickly that she found him instantly appealing, and so it was just another step to gain easy access to the morgue, free coffee, and lunch. She liked watching. And Sherlock liked showing off.

He was horrible to her.

So horrible to her, all the time, and it was almost like an experiment, because every time he shoved her away, she would get upset, and then come back to him. But it’s Molly Hooper, who touches his hand and tells him what he’s thinking, before he even thinks it.

"But…you’re here."

"Yes. But I don’t count." There’s such a soft resolution in her voice, and Sherlock wonders where he lost her. Wonders when she stopped having any hope. Any faith. In him. It’s cutting, and Sherlock stares at her, lost.

"You do." He whispers "You do…count." The words don’t sound quite right, but it’s the best he can do. For everything he’s learnt, expressing eloquently was not one of them.

"No. No, I don’t, and that’s okay."

He never quite fixes it with Molly, but she seems to be okay, and they act like they used too, and Sherlock thinks it might be alright. But Molly Hooper taught him how to empathise, and he has to admit, it’s come in useful.

But it’s Doctor John Hamish Watson.

He’s the one.

The one who changes everything.

Before John even started, he was head and shoulders above the rest.

I mean, soldier! Doctor! Brother! Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever found someone as addicted to a dangerous lifestyle as John Watson, and to top it all off, the man was clever. Smart and dedicated, goes to medical school. Brave and loyal, joins the army. He’s got an older sister, but John’s been the responsible one his whole life, that damn limp, and he’s so kind. Sherlock doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone kinder than John Watson.

But Sherlock doesn’t think it will change him.

Of course, sharing a flat together, starting to solve cases together, yes it’s all very nice. And then John calls Sherlock his friend, and Sherlock’s not sure how to feel about that.

Because he hasn’t been acting, with John. Never with John. He’s been himself, cutting and cold, and emotionless and distant, not using any of the social norms, he’s not even trying, and yet John makes him a hot cup of tea in the morning, and puts up new wallpaper so that Mrs Hudson won’t notice the growing number of bullet holes.

It’s…flattering.

To think that someone likes him for who he is, and Sherlock realises that he’s been lonely. But he’s not. Not anymore. John thinks he’s clever, and brilliant, and that suddenly means something, because John is not a complete imbecile.

He’s not that much smarter than anyone else, but he thinks correctly, and he has this amazing ability to focus all of buzzing energy that is Sherlock’s brain into one precise stream of light. Sherlock hadn’t been joking when he said that John stimulated his genius. John did. By looking at Sherlock with those glittering blue eyes, and just having faith in him. Not expectations. Just faith.

John gets kidnapped, beaten, a bomb strapped to his chest, John risks his life for him, kills a man for him, gets put in a bonfire! And Sherlock genuinely likes this man. And wants him in his life forever. But he doesn’t…not sure how to word it correctly, but he doesn’t think that John had changed him. John’s just managed to entangle himself with Sherlock Holmes, but Sherlock wouldn’t have it any other way. That’s his blogger.

But then Mary happens.

And Sherlock realises he has changed.

He’s changed a lot, for John Watson.

What Mary does, is inexcusable. John’s face, when those lights flicker on will haunt him forever, and it’s no surprise that. Sherlock’s never liked it when John was upset. Except now, Sherlock finds his hands shaking, shaking with the effort of not wrapping them around Mary’s throat. Of wanting her to die, because of what she put John through. John forgives her. Sherlock never does.

Sherlock realises he would do anything for John Watson, and all John needs to do is ask. But the thing about John is, he would never ask for anything that Sherlock wouldn’t do anyway.

But then John asks him to be his best man, because he’s his best friend, and Sherlock _feels._ Pure, faultless emotions, and why had he ever thought these were bad? Because they’re beautiful and they sweep him away, and Sherlock is immersed in everything and life seems full of colour.

"John will leave you, with time," Mycroft offers, and Sherlock just smiles, and shakes his head, pitying. Mycroft hasn’t had people to change him. Hasn’t been as lucky.

"No," Sherlock whispers, full of faith "he won’t."

And he doesn’t.

"Not ever." John promises, and Sherlock shoots Mycroft a victorious smile, drawing a beautiful sound with the violin with an elegant flourish. "I won’t leave you either, Mycroft," John offers, and Mycroft hums in distain, leaving.

Sherlock knows, with time, John will change Mycroft too.

And he can’t wait.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comment?  
> x


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